Читать книгу Waif of the River - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 20

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With the roar of London behind them and the open road before, away they went at full gallop, neck and neck, across Blackheath, but gradually the Viscount's lighter weight told and he was two lengths ahead when he checked for the long ascent of Shooters Hill, saying:

"You'll never make a jockey, old fellah, too much beef and bone."

"But not an ounce of fat, damme! However," said Robin as their horses ambled up the hill, "we've taken some of the devil out of them, and your Tempest is a bit blown."

"And your Cannonball sweats!"

"Naturally! But tell me, Rags, what do you know about babies?"

"Plenty, old boy! You see, my cousin Ursula has one, so has my head groom's wife, and they're so much of a muchness it would be impossible to tell 'em apart."

"Have you seen Clia's infant?"

"Not yet, but it'll be precisely like all the others, of course, and just as unexpected."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"All babies lack restraint, old fellah, consequently they're safest at a distance and far best when fast asleep."

"Safest? You mean——?"

"Exactly! They're apt to damp one's enthusiasm and what not, and I know because my cousin Ursula persists in insisting that I hold hers every time and——"

"Good lord! Were you ever—caught?"

"Caught? Ah, I see what you mean! Only once; ever since, I handed it back in time. And, Dev, babies take a lot of holding, I can tell you! F'instance, you must never let their heads wobble or roll, and you must hold them either backwards, face up, or front-side down, a fairly intricate business, because they're apt to squirm; remember this, old boy, if Clia insists on you holding hers, as she will."

"No—d'you really think she may?"

"Bound to, old boy. All mothers always do!"

"However, I shall refuse to touch it!"

"D'ye think she'll let you refuse? My poor ass, she'll have it in your arms before you know it. All you have to do is to keep a fairly tight hold, say 'Beautiful' and pass it back as soon as possible."

"Now, damme, but I'm half-minded to turn back."

"Not so, old boy. Remember what the Bible says about the fellah with a plough—no turning back. And as for Clia's baby——"

"That's just it! The idea that Clia's is precisely like the general run of infants—well—shocks me rather."

"Oh? Ah? Why?"

"Because from what I have been able to observe by a not too close inspection ordinary babies are as bald, toothless and wrinkled as very aged worn-out folk instead of extremely young and new, and anything but beautiful. D'you agree?"

"I do, old boy. And, what's more, they emit strange sounds, squeaks and what not; they howl like bandogs or screech like small fiends! Ursula's is always at it one way or another."

"All things considered, Rags, it seems that infants are unpleasant necessities! You were, I was, and others must and will be, or nothing whatever could be. We were—babies! An extremely repulsive thought, Rags."

"True, my dear fellah, and hence one best not to contemplate or harp upon, so let's change the dooced subject."

"Right you are, Rags! Now listen to this!" And forthwith Robin told of the Superman and the Vanished Heiress with such particularity of detail that almost before his story was ended they came in sight of that long-familiar cosy inn called the Wheatsheaf.^[4]

"Ale!" sighed Robin, urging Cannonball to speedy canter.

"Pint tankards!" said the Viscount, urging Tempest to a gallop.

Thus very soon they had clattered into the fragrant stable-yard and were calling lustily for,

"Sam!"

"Susan!"

And forth came husband and wife to greet them; Susan all smiles and buxom as ever, Sam's hair a little greyer than of yore, still stiff as usual, his eyes as round beneath those thick brows still raised wistfully as if asking the question that was never answered.

"How are you, Sam, old fellah?"

"Right well, I b'lieve, m' lord."

"And you, Susan, my dear?"

"The same, Master Robin, and that glad for to see ee, and my lord, too; 'tes like old times, that 'tes! And by good hap I've a lovely capon, stuffed aturning on the jack at this minute, wi' apple-pie to follow and clotted cream."

"A capon!" sighed Robin.

"Apple-pie!" murmured the Viscount.

"So, my dearies," said she with the loving familiarity of years, "if ee can wait——"

"We can!" said Robin.

"We will!" affirmed the Viscount.

"My Sam shall bring your ale t' ye in the garden."

So thither went they to quench their thirst right nobly and breathe an air redolent of the blended sweetness of flower, herb and ripening fruit.

"Lord love us, Rags!" exclaimed Robin, glancing up and around with shining eyes. "God bless our English countryside!"

"And such fellahs as Sam to make it bloom like this garden—the yeomen and bowmen, Crécy and Agincourt, not to mention Trafalgar and Waterloo, and thereby the peace and security of such lovely places as this."

"By jingo, old Rags and Bones, some day you'll be an orator, and, what's more, a real statesman! And you're right. The yeomen of England, sons of the soil and men of the sword to glorify and guard it, yes, and die for it. B'gad, I'm growing eloquent, too—so let's drink to 'em, the yeomen of England!"

"Old fellow," said Robin, after they had drunk this toast and very solemnly, "how long is it since you saw Clia?"

"Six months."

"Same here; of course, we saw her together and I thought her more beautiful than ever."

"And lovelier, Robin! She will always be—the One, eh, old boy?"

"Ever and always, Rags! We are both one-woman men."

"Precisely, Dev; utterly, eternally, unitedly devoted!"

"If," sighed Robin, setting down his nearly empty tankard, "it hadn't been for old Noll—who knows?"

"Ah, who?" sighed the Viscount.

"She might have chosen one of us, Rags."

"Not a doubt of it—and most probably you, Robin."

"Though very possibly you, my dear old Rags and Bones; yes, most possibly it might have been you!"

"Ah!" murmured the Viscount, gazing down sadly into his depleted tankard. "The 'might-have-been'—dooced pathetic phrase that!"

"Heart-rending, Rags! We both loved and lost!"

"And were equally blighted, old boy! Yes, and must ever remain so!"

"Too infernally true!" nodded Robin, beginning to scowl. "And all—all by reason of old Oliver! Had he been anyone else I should have challenged his right, called him out and done my best to shoot the fellow, old fellow."

"Certainly. Like a dog, old boy."

"However, since he is old Noll, we must make the best of it, grin and bear it, Rags!"

"Bite the bullet, old boy. Though Clia's infant will be the only baby in my life!"

"Mine, too!" quoth Robin. Here together they sighed again heavily, together raised their tankards, but in the act of drinking paused, as from the road came a sound of rapidly approaching hoofs and wheels, suddenly checked, and thereafter a clamour of voices and a woman's plaintive cry rising to a scream....

Down went the two tankards, up started the two friends, and were half-way across the garden, when towards them sped a woman, her dainty frills and furbelows uplifted to aid the nimble action of extremely shapely limbs suddenly hidden as, reaching out appealing hands, she gasped:

"Gentlemen—oh—don't let them—drag me back!"

"Not we!" said Robin, taking the nearest hand.

"Never!" said the Viscount, clasping the other in both his own. "Over our dead bodies and what not. Let them come and try."

"Oh, they will, they will. And Claude ... Claude can be so terrible.... They're coming!"

"Good!" said Robin, smiling. "Pray step into the arbour and leave Mr. Claude and company to us!" Turning hastily to do so, she tripped and might have fallen, but with the leap of an antelope the Viscount reached and caught her in his arms, and for a moment her bonneted head lay pillowed on his breast; for a moment only, but ... for one at least never was moment more fateful. A look, a sigh, and then:

"Phyllinda!" cried a commanding voice, and into this hitherto peaceful garden stormed three dark-complexioned fellows in livery led by one a slim, young, too-exquisitely dainty person, yet the very embodiment of Authority (with a capital A), who, beholding the two, halted to survey each from head to foot with a very evident truculence.

"Aha!" exclaimed Robin, squaring his shoulders. "Spanish brigands, eh, Rags?"

"No, Italian banditti, old fellah. As for Sir Superbus, this intrusive gentleman, turned out like a buck from top to toe, he should be English, though."

The gentleman in question bowed graciously, but the airy gesture of his riding-whip was a menace and the flourish of his hat a challenge as he said:

"You, sirs, will forgive this intrusion——"

"But we do—not!" said Robin aggressively. "No, sir. We resent it so much that we demand and insist on your instant departure."

The gentleman smiled, bowed again, and said:

"With the utmost pleasure, though not, oh, most certainly not, until my mission is perfectly accomplished."

"Your mission being what, pray?"

"To escort this misguided young lady back home. Phyllinda, you hear me! No more of this folly!"

"Phyllinda?" said Robin, as if pondering the name.

"I strongly object to be kept waiting, as you know, Phyllinda! So take my arm and let us go—at once! Come, do not force me to compel you."

"And who," Robin demanded offensively, "the devil are you to order or compel this lady?"

"Her legal guardian's brother, sir! I am Claude St. John Despard, and, what's more, I——"

"No!" said Robin bluntly. "We want no more of you. Personally I object to you strongly. Your appearance, your air, your manners and your presence offends me and is evidently even more obnoxious to this terrified lady."

"So?" exclaimed Mr. Despard. "Then, sir, I warn you——"

"On the contrary, Mr. Despard, I warn you that I am this lady's humbly devoted servant and will not suffer her to be molested."

"Indeed!" Mr. Despard smiled at his whip, glanced from this to his three silent watchful men, glanced at grim-smiling Robin, at the placid-seeming Viscount, smiled and enquired:

"Such highly unselfish devotion is most chivalrous, of course, and very affecting, but means—precisely what?"

"That Mistress Phyllinda, distressed by your outrageous pursuit, has sought the protection of my friend and myself."

"But I," said Mr. Despard, "inform and warn you she is an absconding ward who has fled her home and the care of her legal guardian."

"Yes, yes, I have!" she cried bitterly. "And shall I tell these gentlemen why? Must I describe your odious persecution of me—your ceaseless hateful——"

"Silence!" cried Mr. Despard, with graceful though threatening gesture.

"Sir," said the Viscount, confronting him, grim as smiling Robin but far more deadly, "'persecution' is a most detestable word; its infliction demands condign punishment. Say at twelve paces with the necessary tools, favour me by accepting my card and——"

"Certainly not, sir! I've wasted time enough already. ... This damned feminine hysteria! Phyllinda, do you return home with me of your own free will or——"

"No!" she panted, retreating farther into the arbour. "No—no——"

"Avanti!" cried Mr. Despard and raised his whip, whereat the threatening four advanced against the devoted two.

"Now for it, Rags!" cried Robin, leaping to snatch up the nearest of their empty tankards. "Your whip, my fist and a quart pot, shoulder to shoulder!"

"The thin red line, old boy! Steady the Buffs! Aim low, strike hard and——"

"'Old!" roared a voice. And there, close in the attackers' rear, stood Sam with his famous brass bell-mouthed blunderbuss levelled. "'Old!" he bellowed. "All o' you furrineers 'old 'ard! Stand and don't ee move or I b'leeve most of ee'll get peppered very 'ot, seein' as 'ow I be loaded wi' buck-shot, bits o' glass and a bent nail or so, which if I pull trigger might come a bit sharp like, I b'leeve. So I'll ax ee all to git out o' my gardin'!"

Startled by Sam's sudden roar and dismayed by the yawning muzzle of his levelled weapon, the invaders retreated sullenly to the road; only Mr. Despard remained to nod and smile at them, saying:

"Rejoice and triumph now while you can! If you can, laugh, gentlemen, laugh! Ah, but rest perfectly assured this is merely the beginning! What is to be shall prove no laughing matter for any of you. And, Phyllinda, for whatever evil the future may bring—as it shall—you and your folly are to blame. So laugh you now and be merry, for tomorrow—ah, tomorrow?" Then Mr. Despard saluted them with an ironic bow, leaving Sam, blunderbuss at shoulder, staring after him very wistfully, until out from a certain window came his wife's buxom head to demand:

"Sam, whatever be ee doing wi' that nasty thing?"

"Nothing, m' dear," he replied, with mournful shake of his head, "and I don't b'leeve I ever shall, though so wishful for to try a shot."

"Fie—don't ee talk so vicious, Sam! Come you indoors this moment and put that murdersome thing away and help me shell they peas."

[4]	See The Crooked Furrow.